


countdown

by abovetheruins



Category: American Idol RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-26
Updated: 2010-12-26
Packaged: 2017-10-14 03:38:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/144920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abovetheruins/pseuds/abovetheruins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>TiMERs - revolutionary devices implanted in the wrist that promise to accurately display the number of days, hours, minutes and seconds until the owner finds true love. It even sounds a little alarm the first time two soulmates look into each other's eyes. However, things aren’t so easy for David Cook, who faces the rare dilemma of a blank TiMER; his soulmate—whoever and wherever they are—doesn’t have a TiMER. Sick of relationships that are failed from the start, he finally decides to give up - until he meets a charming young shop employee named David. AU.</p><p>Based on the movie TiMER, and written for rpf_big_bang.</p>
            </blockquote>





	countdown

Cook watches the timer on the parking meter go up (twenty-five, fifty, seventy-five minutes), unease settling like a sack of stones in the pit of his stomach. His palms feel itchy, clammy, the jingle of change as it slides into the slot making his head pound. He really does not fucking want to be here.

"C'mon, Dave!" Kimberly grabs his hand, all bright smiles, happiness practically rolling off of her in waves (as if this doesn't spell the absolute end to their relationship, as if this isn't the biggest damn mistake they'll ever make). She pulls him toward the double doors of the TiMER building, it's name proudly proclaimed in big red block letters atop the storefront. He can see the employees milling about inside, all dressed in their red shirts and black slacks - the sight is so depressingly familiar that he almost feels sick to his stomach.

The door chimes merrily as they step inside, an annoyingly chipper jingle that does nothing to help the headache building behind his eyes. They're barely even past the threshold before a woman with long blonde curls comes up to them, a bright smile on her face.

"David!" She reaches up to wrap her arms around Cook's neck in a hug. "It's good to see you again!" As she pulls back her eyes are inevitably drawn to Kim (her smile, if possible, spreads even wider). "Oh, here to try again, hm?"

Cook can't help but flush in embarrassment. He doesn't even bother telling her that this wasn't his idea (that it's _never_ his idea). "This is Kimberly, Brooke," he says instead, anything to get the focus off of himself for a while.

Brooke sticks out her hand, smiling amiably. "Well, it's nice to meet you, Kimberly. Now, I'm guessing you're here for the implant, am I right?"

Kim nods, sliding her arm through Cook's. "That's right."

Brooke claps her hands together, looking delighted. Cook can't help but wonder, after all this time, just how much of it is fake. "Great! Come on back and I'll get you started."

Cook almost has to restrain himself from dragging his feet. Kim's arm is snug through his, though, so he has little choice but to follow her.

 _Well_ , he thinks, _it was fun while it lasted_.

-

916 days. 916 _fucking_ days.

"Two and a half years..." Kim's eyes drift from her newly installed timer (where they'd been resting for a good fifteen minutes, wide-eyed and confused) to Brooke. "So, does that mean...?"

Brooke nods slowly - she makes it a point, Cook notices, not to look at him. "It's... Well, it means you've got two and half years until you meet your... Your one."

Kim's eyes fall back to the tiny implant, the gray band stretched across her right wrist, watching the seconds tick away. Her voice is quiet when she finally speaks, almost wistful. Cook's heart twists into another painful knot at the sound of it. "My one..."

Brooke leaves them alone after a few awkward minutes; he sees the pitying look she throws him over her shoulder before she goes (same look she always gives him, seems like - you'd think they'd both be fucking used to this by now).

Kim is still staring at her timer, murmuring almost as if to herself. "Two and a half years, huh? That's... that's good, right? It'll give me time to get somewhere, get things done... To prepare. Yeah, that's... Oh!" Her eyes snap up to meet his; he feels a little spark of triumph at the way her face falls, shamed. Guess she hadn't forgotten about him, after all.

"Dave, I'm so sorry. I didn't... I didn't think, you know? I was sure we would be-"

"Yeah." He cuts her off, right there. Doesn't want to hear it, that pitying tone of her voice. He's not angry at Kim, not for dragging him here when he'd made it clear he wasn't ready yet, not for getting that look on her face when her timer had started counting down when his own had remained just as blank as it ever had. He's not sorry, either, for the two months they spent together, for the sliver of hope he'd held out that, maybe, just fucking _maybe_ , this one would turn out to be... Well.

"I'm happy for you, Kim. Really." He can tell she doesn't believe him, but then what is he supposed to do? Can't hide the flat tone of his voice, the resigned slump of his shoulders, not when he feels like everything's just been wrung out of him all over again. "You go and live your life, okay? And when you zero out, just. Be happy."

He doesn't wait to hear her response, if she has one, just turns and walks out. Brooke is no where to be seen when he leaves, but he's not surprised.

He guesses she's getting as sick of his failures as he is.

-

Timers.

They'd been around for a few decades now. His mother and step-father had one; his brothers too. Tiny little metal bands installed into a person's wrist at the onset of puberty, powered by their body heat - he'd gotten his when he turned thirteen, remembers the nervousness and anticipation (and the _pain_ ) as it was implanted into his left wrist, followed by the crushing, bitter disappointment as it failed to come online, remaining a blank across the screen.

It only meant, as his mother and step-father had been quick to reassure him, that his soulmate (his fucking _soulmate_ , and how unbelievable had _that_ sounded when he was thirteen?) hadn't had their timer implanted yet. _Things like this happen all the time_ , they said. _Sometimes it just takes a while._ It would happen eventually, and until then his parents had been more than happy to regal him with the story of their own timers zeroing out (a story he and his brother had heard a hundred times before), sharing little secret smiles that, if anything, only proved to make Cook feel worse.

"Just give it time, David," Beth had told him, Stanley nodding over her shoulder - the picture of parental reassurance. "It'll happen, you'll see."

That had been fourteen years ago, fourteen years of relationships that were doomed from the fucking _start_ , of his girlfriends dragging him into that building to get their own timers and their own countdowns and their own soulmates.

He was twenty-seven years old, for Christ's sake. He didn't have time to keep looking, to keep staring at his damned blank timer and trying to will his other to just get off their ass and get themselves the implant. He was sick of trying so fucking hard to get a relationship to _work_.

"I give up," he grows, voice muffled by the pillow he'd nearly slammed his face into the moment he'd gotten back to his apartment. He hears Andrew snort from where he's sitting, perched at Cook's desk (probably snooping through his things as he does so).

"Sorry, bro," his sibling calls, laughter clearly evident in his voice (isn't even trying to hide it, the bastard). "Couldn't hear you. What was that?"

"I _said_ ," and he threw the pillow at his brother's unsympathetic, laughing face, "that I give up."

Drew rolls his eyes. "Uh huh, yeah, I definitely believe you. Really, I do."

"Do you _want_ me to hit you again?" He reaches for his other pillow to do just that, curling his arm back and letting it fly. Drew dodges it with a hissed, "Shit!" toppling over onto the floor. "You're supposed to be consoling me here, Drew, not being an asshole!"

Drew tosses the pillow back at him, not bothering to get up from his undignified heap on the ground, limbs akimbo. "Hey! You don't hear me fucking complaining." He waves his arm in the air, the band around his wrist catching the light from the ceiling lamp. Cook nearly winces at the sight of it - he knows Drew catches it, sees the grin spread humorlessly across his face. "Forty-three, Dave. Fucking _forty-three years old_ , and then there's my one. Only have to wait a couple decades. Perfect timing, huh?"

 _At least you **know**_ , Cook can't help but think, but he holds his tongue. No sense getting in another pointless fight over who's love life sucks worse.

Drew sighs, pulling himself onto the bed and collapsing beside Cook, thumping his feet (and his mud-encrusted shoes, no doubt) on his brother's bedsheets. "Look, he says, pillowing his head on his arms. "One of these days, your timer will go off. Your soulmate will prance into the clinic and finally get their implant, your eyes will meet across a crowded room and - bam! - true love. It'll be all rainbows and unicorns and puppies, corny shit like that. The end. Happily fucking ever after."

"You really know how to make a guy feel better," Cook deadpans, sitting up and reaching for the shoes he discarded earlier. "Now, would you get up? Mom wants us at the house in half an hour."

Andrew groans but rolls off the bed nonetheless, cracking his knuckles. "Alright, alright, let's go. Oh, and thanks for inviting me over, by the way. This makes bitchfest number.. what, now? I'm sure we're getting into the thousands..."

Cook trips over two wayward pillows as he chases his brother from the room.

-

The Red Guitar is the only music store even remotely close to his apartment (a blessing, he thinks, and a curse; he can't take two steps inside before his arms are full of merchandise he really can't afford on his salary at the bar). Still, it's a haven of sorts, an escape, and after years of being a faithful customer the employees know him by name (Michael and Carly, who he's built a sort of friendship with over the years, and the owner, Kris, who coaxes him into impromptu jam sessions right there in the store, set up on stools in front of the massive display of vintage guitars).

Two days after his disastrous trip to the TiMER clinic (and dinner at his parents, where he'd been subjected to yet more pitying looks and the ever popular, "Just give it time, Dave. It _will_ happen.") and he's in some serious need of a little R and R, needs new strings for his guitar and maybe a few new CDs, and then it's home to laze the day away with just himself and his guitar. He might even call up the band, see if the guys are free. They have a gig the following weekend (a small one, in the bar where he works, but still, it's something) and some extra practice couldn't hurt.

The door doesn't make a sound as he steps inside The Red Guitar, no annoyingly chipper jingle of chimes to rake him the wrong way today. The store is practically deserted, save for a few noisy teenagers by the CD stacks, massive headphones covering their ears as they sample the eclectic selection. He can see Michael in the back by the big instruments, the keyboards and the drum sets, apparently fighting a losing battle with a sign he's trying to hang over one of the displays; Cook can hear his muffled curses from the door. Grinning (and feeling a fraction less sulky then when he'd woken up that morning), he starts to make his way towards the Australian, glancing idly at the rows of strings as he passes.

"Oh! Um," a voice chirps over his shoulder. "Hello, uh, sir! Welcome to The Red Guitar! Can I help you with anything?"

Cook's about to wave the guy off, turning his head to say something about "not needing any help, man, thanks anyway," when he stops and just, stares.

He's never seen this boy before. He can't be more than eighteen, nineteen at the most. He's a little short, the top of his spiky black hair only coming up to Cook's chin. He's got the hugest fucking eyes Cook's ever seen, warm and liquid and hazel. The way he's smiling - soft, bright, and eager - is like a punch to the gut. He's wearing the traditional red shirt of a Red Guitar employee (Cook wonders where he came from, hadn't even noticed him when he'd walked in). The little name tag above his chest says _David_.

His smile is also starting to slip a little (probably because Cook is staring at him like a creep). "Uh, David, is it?" he asks, clearing his throat. "I was actually looking for-" His eyes swivel to the display he just passed. "-guitar strings."

David's eyes light up. "Oh, okay! Um, that would be... this way, then." He starts off in the direction of the strings, clearly expecting Cook to follow him. Cook glances toward the back; Mike's no where to be seen. It's just him and David (the teenagers are ignoring them, still clustered together and preoccupied by their music) so, he thinks, what's the harm?

"So," David says, when they're both standing in front of the string packages, his eyes traveling from row to row as if he knows exactly what brand Cook is looking for. "I guess... Do you um, do you play guitar, then?"

Cook nods. "Yeah," he says, and follows it up with, "I'm uh, in a band, actually. Me and my friends." He doesn't miss the way David's eyes snap to his face, expression bordering on something like awe.

"Really?" he asks, and it's a little strange - Cook's never really heard that tone of voice before. Usually, when he tells people about his little side hobby (that will hopefully take him somewhere, someday), he gets one of two responses; there's the vaguely interested and the _not_ interested. David sounds as if it's the greatest thing he's ever heard. "That's... that's really..."

Cook thinks for a minute, glancing at David out of the corner of his eye. "Do you like music?"

The response he gets is immediate; David's entire face lights up. "Oh, I- Yeah. I do." The conviction in his voice is rock steady, this warm burst of what can't be mistaken as anything other than _love_ filling up his eyes. "I'm actually, um, saving up for that." He points to the keyboard in the back, the one Mike had been struggling to hang a sign over earlier. It's a beautiful instrument, all sleek and black. He can almost see this kid, _David_ (and how weird is that?) sitting there playing it, long fingers coaxing something beautiful from the ivory keys.

"Really?" His turn to pry, he guesses. David nods, grins.

"We have a piano at home. Well, my mother does - it's hers, I mean. But I wanted to have something of my own, you know? Something I could bring with me when I move out, go to college..." David's eyes widen, a flush coloring his cheeks as he looks at Cook. "Oh! I shouldn't be- Sorry. I tend to um, ramble, if someone doesn't stop me. You were looking for something - ?"

 _All the damn time_ , he thinks, glancing surreptitiously down at David's wrists (can't see anything from this angle though, and why the hell should he even care if this kid has a fucking timer or not?)

He turns back to the strings before he can say something completely idiotic, grabs a few of his favorite brand and forces a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes at David's red, embarrassed face. "Yeah, man, these are all I wanted. Thanks for the help."

"Oh, it was no problem, um...?"

"David," he says, and at the kid's confused look patiently clarifies, "It's my name, too. Though, I guess you can call me Cook. Everyone else does." Hell, if David's working here now, there's no way Cook _won't_ see him, so.

"Oh, well. Cook, then?" David's lips turn up a little at the name, eyes bright. "It's nice to meet you." He even holds out his hand, looking almost as surprised as Cook feels that he even moved. "Um."

Cook takes his hand before David can pull it back, sliding their palms together. "Nice to meet you, too, David."

David grins, looks as if he's about to say something else when there's suddenly a fist being slammed into Cook's shoulder. He turns around with a muffled curse, ready to slam whoever is behind him into the nearest wall when he sees a familiar shit-eating grin and cocky smirk.

"Jesus Christ, Mike, you asshole! Did you have to do that?"

Michael grins toothily at him, catching sight of David's alarmed expression behind him. "David! Cook's not bothering you, is he?" He pulls David forward by the shoulders, completely ignoring the boy's protests. Cook winces at the expression on his face, pinched and uncomfortable and like he's trying as hard as possible not to flinch away.

"Yeah, yeah, leave off it, Mike." He yanks his friend back by the collar of his shirt, tries not to notice the grateful look David sends his way. "You gonna ring me up or what?"

"Pfft, no." Mike disentangles himself from the headlock Cook had roughhoused him into, twirling a pair of keys around his index finger. "Break time, my friend. I'm meeting Carly for lunch." He ignores the snort that statement pulls out of Cook, turning to David with a grin. "You'll be alright by yourself for about an hour, won't you, Davey?"

"Oh, uh." David looks anything but okay with this idea, but he nods nonetheless. "Sure? I'll be fine."

"Good." Mike salutes them both, says, "Well, I'm off!" before spinning around and nearly vaulting out the front door.

"I'll say," Cook says, rolling his eyes. He hears a giggle escape David (an actual fucking _giggle_ , bright enough that it gets him to crack a smile). "So, are _you_ going to ring me up, then?"

David jumps. "Oh, gosh! Yeah. This way." Cook follows him to the counter, finds it hard not to laugh at the boy's face, so intensely concentrated as he rings up Cook's purchase, handing it and his change back to him with a chipper, "Come again!" and another one of his huge, bright smiles.

Cook thanks him, doesn't think anything of glancing down at David's wrists, bare and suddenly displayed on the counter top.

 _No timer_ , he thinks, almost distantly, catches David's eyes with a grin before he heads out onto the street. He doesn't know why that thought stays with him, all though the rest of the afternoon and into the night. He plays his guitar in an attempt to distract himself, doesn't stop until his fingers are throbbing and his entire body feels tired and achy when he collapses into bed. Still, it doesn't leave.

 _No timer_.

-

He doesn't see David again until that weekend, doesn't even think about the kid until Saturday night, when he and his band are up on that little stage in the back of his bar, reaching the end of their set and driving the crowd wild (people are actually pressed together on the floor, jumping and dancing and _screaming_ , it's insane). Cook is singing his heart out into the mic, sweat pouring into his eyes; it's the best he's felt in _weeks_ , this euphoric sensation, the utmost certainty that this is the one thing in his life that actually _works_.

He can see Andrew through the haze, mixing drinks behind the counter (theatrically as ever, twirling glasses and liquor bottles like a pro). He's talking animatedly to Carly (Cook knows Mike can't be far behind, then), sliding her a drink. She's got her arm slung over someone's shoulders; it's hard to see through the press of bodies, but they look familiar. A break in the crowd gives him an unobstructed view of a head of spiky black hair, and eyes -

Huge hazel eyes, looking directly at _him_.

 _David_. He doesn't stop to think of how exactly David got in there, or even what he's doing at this particular bar in the first place. He keeps singing, keeps belting out the lyrics, holding David's unflinching gaze the entire time. Holds it even as they crash headlong into _The Truth_ , their last song of the night. Adrenaline's coursing through his veins, excitement and something else, something different. David's not even looking away, not once, and it's... heady, almost, having the boy's undivided attention focused so squarely on _him_.

When they come to the end of the song Cook grins into the mic, riding high on the exuberance of the crowd, the wall of sound crashing down over them. "You guys have been amazing!" he screams, voice raw in a way he hasn't heard it in years, as if he's wrung everything out of it that he has to give.

He makes sure his guitar is safe on its stand before he jumps down from the stage, pushing his way through the crowd (offering thanks to everyone that stops him, says they enjoyed the show). There's more people crowded into the bar than he realized - it takes him a few hectic minutes before he reaches the counter, Andrew sliding a drink his way as he draws near.

"You were great, Dave!" Carly slaps him on the back, grin stretched wide across her lips. Michael is on her left side, downing his own drink, offers him his own congratulations with a smirk and a, "Didn't know you had it in you, mate."

"Thanks, guys." He takes a gulp of his drink, eyes focused on the boy on Carly's right. David's head is down, fingers tapping against his own glass. Cook can see his eyes, though, glancing up at him every few seconds, trying not to look obvious about it (has to hide his grin in the rim of his glass at the sight of it).

He catches the look Michael shares with Carly as he slides onto the stool beside David (ignores it, for the moment)..

"Didn't think I'd see _you_ here," he says, watches the flush that spreads across David's face as he fiddles with his straw.

(On second thought, Cook catches Andrew's eye across the bar, motions to David's drink. Andrew rolls his eyes and mouths, "Sprite," and Cook relaxes back into his seat).

"Um, actually, Carly and Michael kind of, snuck me in?" It's clear by the tone of his voice that David probably had no choice in the matter.

Well, Cook thinks, that explains it. Michael is bad enough, but with Carly helping him... "You never stood a chance, huh?"

That, at least, gets a grin out of David, eyes finally migrating from his drink to Cook's face. His cheeks are still ruddy with color, expression tinged with nervousness. Still, he looks happy (and that, Cook decides, is a good look on him).

"You were really, um, great up there, Cook." The embarrassment is back again, as if David's not sure he's saying the right thing, but there's sincerity, too, underneath his nervousness. "You were _amazing_. You all were! And, and did you see the crowd? They were just-" and David just _flails_ (no other word for it) and Cook has to bite his lip hard to keep from laughing, "-whatever, going _crazy_. It was just. Wow."

And alright, Cook's not made of stone, can't help the laugh that escapes him at David's enthusiasm. "So I guess that means you liked it, then?"

David stares at him like he's grown a second head. "Gosh, yes! I mean, I've never actually seen anyone play like that. How long have you been able to - ?" He trails off, gesturing towards the stage and the instruments resting on their stands, safe from the swarming bar-goers.

"Oh, since I was a kid," Cook answers, waving Andrew over for another drink. His brother takes one look at David, bright-eyed and hanging on to Cook's every word, and smirks (thankfully David doesn't see it). "My first guitar, I remember, I got it when I was twelve. I was _horrible_ , at first, probably drove my mom crazy." He takes one look at David's eager face and asks, "Do you know how to play?"

"The guitar?" David shakes his head in the negative. "No, no. Just the piano. But," he confesses, eyes drifting once again to his half-empty glass, "I've kind of always wanted to? Just, I don't know, I probably wouldn't be very good or anything, but-"

"I could teach you," Cook interrupts, trying to sound casual even as he's thinking, _What the fuck am I doing?_ He barely even knows David and here he is, offering him guitar lessons out of thin air? "I mean," he backpedals, "if you wanted me to."

"O-oh, well." David blinks at him (and Christ, Cook had forgotten how fucking _huge_ his eyes were). "Well, I, I mean. You don't have to, or anything. I couldn't even, I wouldn't be able to pay you for it so that's-"

"You wouldn't have to," Cook interrupts again (figures he'll have to keep doing that around David - the boy doesn't seem able to stop talking once he gets going). "Really, I wouldn't mind."

"But that wouldn't be fair! You teaching me and me not even paying you for it." David looks genuinely stressed by the idea, and Cook feels what he thinks might be affection spread through his chest.

"How about this? I teach you how to play the guitar, and in return, you... play me something on the piano? We'll compromise!" Not a bad deal at all, Cook thinks. Once the image gets into his head he can't shake it, anyway - David sitting all composed and relaxed at the bench, fingers playing over the keys.

"That's it? You just want me to... play for you?" David looks a little shocked at the request (and there's that blush again, high on his cheeks). "Well, I mean... If you really wouldn't mind?"

Cook smiles. "I really wouldn't, David."

"A-alright, then. Um. Thank you, Cook."

"No problem."

They sit in silence for a while - Cook's surprised at how easy it is, how comfortable, just sitting here beside this boy, listening to the hustle and bustle of the bar around them. He can see Carly and Michael on the dance floor out of the corner of his eye (not dancing _together_ or anything, just as close as they can get), and Drew at the far end of the counter, mixing drinks for Andy and Neal, laughing about something. It's getting close to eleven - he's sure the sudden respite in the crowd won't last long, only a matter of time before the midnight rush descends and puts a stop to any attempt at a normal conversation.

"Do you want to go somewhere, David?" he asks, suddenly and without any real thought as to what exactly he's doing. He's sure David probably has to be home soon, doesn't even know where they would go, anyway, he just... He wants to get away from the noise and the clamor of the bar.

"Oh, well." David looks down at his watch, his brow furrowing for a split second before he looks up at Cook, offering the older man a timid smile. "I have to be home by um, midnight? I, well - Michael, actually - called my mother and told her we were doing inventory at the store and that it'd take a while, so. If you, if you don't mind walking with me, maybe? I mean, you don't have to or anything. I just don't want to interrupt Carly - she was my ride, you know? - and I can just walk by himself or take a bus or, something." David trails off, looking sheepish, picking at the hem of his hoodie. "You, uh, you'll have to stop me sometimes, when I start to ramble."

Cook can't help but laugh, easy and real in a way he hasn't been able to in a long while around anyone other than his family. "I wanted to see if you'd stop on your own," he says, grinning to show he's only teasing. The smile he gets from David in return, still hesitant but bright and joyful all the same, is like a tiny beacon in the dim light of the bar.

"C'mon." He slides off the stool and calls over to Andrew, asking him to bring his guitar back to his apartment. He gets a wink and a thumbs up in reply before his brother returns to his conversation with Andy. "I'll walk you home."

"O-okay." David finishes his drink in one long gulp, sliding a dollar bill onto the counter before he gets up, shooting one last look over his shoulder at the dance floor. "Do you think I should tell Carly-?"

"Don't worry about it," Cook assures him, leading the way toward the front door. "I'll call her later and let her know where you went. Besides," he snorts, catching sight of the heated glances Mike keeps sending Carly, "I doubt she'd take much notice, anyway."

David laughs a little behind him, closing the door after them both as they step into the crisp night air. "Did you notice it, too?" he asks, falling into step beside Cook as they head down the street; Cook keeps one half pace behind him, letting the teenager lead. "I mean, I thought I was imagining it that first day, at the store? But um, they really seem to like each other."

"Doesn't mean they'll do anything about it, though." Cook rolls his eyes. "I've always thought it would be better if we just forced a timer onto their wrists and let it go from there, you know? Then at least they'd know if something was there."

David falls silent beside him. Cook glances at his face and sees the drawn, tight little frown on his lips, wonders what he said within the last ten seconds to make David look like that.

"Uh, David?"

David's eyes drift from his face to his left wrist, swinging idly by his side. "So, you have one...?" he asks, voice almost too soft to pick up. Cook doesn't like that expression on his face.

"Oh, a timer?" He holds his wrist up to the glaring light of the street lamps they keep passing under; the blank timepiece blinks eerily back at him. "Yeah, since I was thirteen. You, uh, you don't?"

"No." And Cook knew this, knew it the first day he'd met David, seen his timer-less wrists and wondered why the teenager hadn't gotten one yet. Maybe, he thinks, studying the unfamiliar expression still taking residence on the younger man's face, maybe David will tell him now.

But he remains silent, staring straight ahead as they walk on. Cook doesn't try to pry.

"So," he says instead, spreading his arms out wide. "When would you like to start our lessons?"

That at least seems to get David's mind off of whatever was bothering him, a hesitant smile blossoming on his lips. "Oh, well. I work at the shop Monday through Thursday from three to nine, and Saturday I go in at noon to five. I'm off on Sundays and Fridays?"

"Well, how about tomorrow, then?" Might as well get a head start, and (though he doesn't quite admit it to himself) he wants to know more about David, maybe find out why he'd looked so troubled earlier. "At around... four? If that's not too soon or anything."

"Oh, yeah, that's, that's fine." David's hands have migrated into his pockets. Cook takes it as one of David's (many) nervous habits. "If you really don't mind?"

"I really don't mind, David. Promise." He even crosses his heart, pulling a giggle out of the teenager.

They talk about little inconsequential things as they walk - about their families, their jobs, their friends. Cook cracks one awful joke after another, trying to get David to laugh. It works beautifully, David nearly bent over double on the sidewalk as he sputters and giggles. The way it lights up his face, the red high on his cheeks, eyes closed in his mirth is an amazing sight. Cook can't help but join in, more at the boy's expression than his own unfunny humor, and they're nearly out of breath once they reach David's house.

David's wiping the moisture from his eyes, face bright and completely open. Cook has to stuff his hands into his pockets to keep from doing something completely idiotic like ruffling the boy's hair.

"Thank you, for walking me home," David says, fiddling with the keys in his pocket. Cook pulls out his cell phone and thrusts it in David's direction before the silence has a chance to get awkward.

"Your number?" He asks, making a 'gimme' gesture for David's cell. "Just in case you wanna call and cancel on the creepy guy who bugged you the entire night?"

David laughs, punching in his number and allowing Cook to do the same on his cell. "You're not creepy. Um, I don't think?"

"Thanks for that vote of confidence, David," Cook deadpans, slipping his phone back into his pocket as another peal of David's infectious laughter fills the air. "Now, on that note, I need to be heading home. So, see you tomorrow?"

"Yeah." David starts heading up the drive, calling over his shoulder. "I'll um, call you for directions? See you, Cook."

Cook stays at the end of the drive until David is safely inside, turning on his heel as the door closes and heading in the direction of his apartment. He can already imagine the look on Andrew's face once he hears about his plans with David (no doubt his mooch of a brother will decide to crash on his couch tonight), the questions he'll undoubtedly bombard Cook with in the morning. He doesn't even know how to answer them, honestly, doesn't know what it is he's getting into. Doesn't know what it is he _wants_ this to be. What it _can_ be, with his fucking blank timer and that look on David's face when he'd seen it.

 _This is a bad idea,_ , he thinks (the voice in his head, annoyingly enough, sounds a lot like Drew). _Whatever **this** is, it is not going to end well_.

But he thinks of David's smile, David's pure, infectious laugh, and maybe... Maybe it's worth trying for, just one more time.

-

  
It takes an hour of incessant prodding (and about twenty-five bucks) to get Andrew out of his apartment before David comes over. He doesn't even mention the boy's name, just says he has a friend coming over for guitar lessons.

It doesn't take long for Andrew to figure it out, though. "Holy shit! It's that kid, isn't it?" He takes one look at Cook's embarrassed face and absolutely _crows_. "It _is_ , isn't it? I knew something was going on with the two of you last night! _Guitar lessons_ , Dave? Seriously?"

"Yes, guitar lessons," Cook growls, taking a swipe at his brother's shoulder as he passes him on his way to the living room, picking up random beer cans and scraps of paper off the floor. "He wanted to learn, I told him I'd teach him. He's a nice kid, Drew. That's it." He ignores the little voice in the back of his mind chirping, _Liar_.

"Yeah, that's it." His brother snorts, grabbing his jacket off the back of the couch and slipping it on. "Okay then. I'll leave you to your 'guitar lessons'." He makes little finger quotes in the air, ducking the empty beer can Cook lobs at his head. "Don't do anything I wouldn't do, bro!"

Once Andrew is gone Cook is able to relax (marginally, at least), focusing on the menial task of straightening up the apartment. He flicks the radio on as he works, humming along to the music as he vacuums the carpet, stuffs his pile of dirty clothes into the hamper (when was the last time he even did laundry?), and throws away enough trash cluttering the floor to fill two garbage bags (hell, when was the last time he even _cleaned_?)

He tells himself that this is completely normal, that he'd be doing the same thing if it were Carly or Michael or Neal coming over. There's nothing different about David (nothing except his age, at least, and that pulls a wince out of Cook).

It takes him half an hour to get the place looking somewhat decent, and another ten minutes to find the right guitar for David to practice on, an old but immaculately kept acoustic that's been gathering dust in his closet. He spends a few minutes tuning it, glancing at the clock every few moments to see the small hand inching steadily closer to the four.

David had called that morning for directions (thankfully Cook had grabbed at his cell phone before his brother had gotten the chance to pounce on it).

"Um, hi, Cook!" David's voice had been bright and cheerful (definitely a morning person, then). "I hope I didn't wake you up? I was just, I wanted to ask about directions? If you still wanted me to come over."

"Oh, yeah." He'd been deliberately casual about it, rattling off the directions to his apartment as he listened to David shuffle around on the other end, the rustle of fabric as he moved. He could hear other people in the background, the crunch of gravel under feet and the faint sound of cars pulling away. He wondered where the younger man was.

"Okay. Um, I'll see you in a few hours?"

"I'll be here." He'd hung up the phone and immediately his eyes had strayed to the mess on the floor and the clothes piled in the corner (not to mention his younger brother, sprawled on the living room sofa in his underwear with every video game Cook owned spread out around him).

Now, though - now it's just him and this guitar, his apartment isn't a huge fucking mess and he can expect a few Andrew-free hours to spend with David.

He's just finished tuning the acoustic when there's a knock on the door. He almost laughs as he glances at the time - four 'o clock on the dot.

"Coming!" He sets the guitar gently onto the couch cushions, takes a quick look around to make sure he didn't miss anything. Satisfied with the relative cleanliness of the place, he grips the knob and opens the door.

David is fiddling with his keys, looking up and down the hall as if making sure he's got the right door. His face lights up as he catches sight of Cook, lips tilting into that huge, beaming smile. "Oh! Hey, Cook! Um, I'm not... am I on time?"

Cook snags hold of David's sleeve, pulls him into the apartment. "Four on the dot," he says, watching David's eyes drift over the living room, the well worn blue carpet, the pictures hanging on the walls (a few old band posters, family photos); they settle and catch on the sofa, the acoustic propped up against the arm. "Make yourself at home. You want anything to drink?"

"Oh, no. I'm fine, thanks. Is that...?" David gestures to the guitar and Cook grins at the eager expression on his face.

"That's right." He plops down onto one of the cushions, patting the seat beside him in invitation. He passes the guitar to David as soon as the younger man sits down, helping him settle the strap over his shoulder. "She's a little old, but she still sounds great. Thought you could take her home to practice on, if you wanted."

"Oh, wow." David's running his fingers along the guitar's smooth, polished surface, skimming over the strings. The expression on his face is the same as Cook thinks his must have been, the first time he ever held a guitar, the first time he ever felt that connection to music, reverent and powerful. "She's... she's wonderful." David looks up at him, the full force of his gaze like a punch to the gut. "Thank you, Cook."

He rubs the back of his neck, sheepish. "It's, uh, no problem," he mumbles, has to clear his throat and look away for a minute. _Get a fucking grip, Dave._ When he turns back to David, his smile is only half-forced. "So, ready to get started?"

-

  
David turns out to be a natural. Cook had started off slow, showed him the basic chord progressions and where to place his fingers on the stings. David had watched him closely the entire time - the way he held the guitar, the way his fingers moved across the fretboard. It'd been kind of hilarious (and a little endearing), the level of concentration David was putting into this, the way he focused so deeply on what Cook was doing, what he was saying, seemed to actually be taking his advice to heart.

They sit there for hours on that tired old couch, Cook playing simple arrangements while David watches, studying him and absolutely nailing them the moment he tries them out on his own. The sun sinks lower and lower in the sky as they play, slanting through the blinds in thick horizontal stripes, over the curve of David's shoulders as he hunches over the guitar, plucking the strings with strong, sure fingers.

They talk between the music, about simple things like their families and their jobs. David has him barking his laughter into the arm of the couch as he talks about his experience working at the Red Guitar ("It's kind of, well. Michael is sort of - lazy? Oh, but not in a bad way, or anything! He just _sits_ there all the time and uh, sighs a lot? Around Carly, mostly. I don't think he actually works when she's there. At all.") David tells him about his siblings ("They're a lot to handle, sometimes, but I love them.") and his parents ("It's, um, just my mom and us." His face closes off again when he says it - the way it had when Cook had asked him about timers - so Cook doesn't pry).

He tells David about his own family, about Andrew and his parents ("You'll probably meet Drew sometime, if we keep at it with the lessons. Fair warning.") He talks about his band, too, about Neal and Andy and how he wants it to take them somewhere, wants it to mean something.

And David listens, sits there with his eyes wide and eager like he can't get enough of it. "What did it feel like, up there?" he asks. "Up on stage that night... What was it like?"

"It felt like -" Cook takes a minute to answer, tries to recapture that moment - the crowd screaming and reaching out, the burn of his lungs as he'd sung his all out there, that _feeling_. He finally settles on, "-freedom."

David's face opens up like the pages of a book, his expression pure and full of this deep sense of _something_ (Cook hesitates to call it longing, but then, that's what it looks like).

"You could always play with us." He's only half-serious (or so he tells himself), glancing sideways at David's profile as he changes a string that had snapped on the acoustic earlier. He acts like he doesn't see the minute flash of excitement that crosses the younger boy's face, the hesitance and denial that cover it all up.

"Oh, no. Gosh, no. I wouldn't-" David flails his hands a little (another one of his nervous habits that Cook's quickly getting used to). "I mean, I'm nowhere near as good as you guys! I'd make you sound awful!"

"Now I doubt that." Cook grins at him, setting the guitar on the floor by their feet. "I mean it, David. You're a natural. Besides, I bet you'd blow us away on the piano."

David blushes (another sight that's becoming familiar). "Oh, no, I- "

"Ah-ah." Cook waggles his finger in David's face. "Don't even try it, Archuleta. And don't think for a second that I've forgotten your end of our deal. I'm getting that song out of you whether you like it or not." He knows he wouldn't actually force David into it, would back off if it truly made him uncomfortable (but he doesn't think that's it, thinks David is just too afraid of letting him down somehow).

David sighs, swallowing. "If that's what you really want."

"It is. Now!" Cook reaches over the arm of the couch, nearly tumbles to the floor when he stretches too far (David's soft laughter rings out behind him). He digs underneath the end table, slides the fraying yellow phone book out from under a stack of magazines and a mess of paper, and collapses back into the cushions with a sigh. "How about we order some dinner? It's on me."

They end up ordering Chinese, sitting cross-legged on the floor amidst boxes of takeout and watching an old movie on tv. The atmosphere is comfortable, peaceful, Cook prompting David into one conversation after another. They talk about their favorite music, what inspires them, move on to their favorite books, movies - one subject molds seamlessly into another.

It's almost effortless, Cook thinks, breaking into a fortune cookie as David goes on about his favorite movie ("Um, _Finding Nemo_? I know it's kind of childish, but-"), how well they get along, how quick they've fallen into this casual camaraderie. It doesn't feel like they've only known each other for a few days, like it was just last week that he'd gone into the Red Guitar, down and out and cursing at his damned blank timer, only to nearly sidestep David with his red uniform shirt and bright, polite smile.

The movie cuts to a commercial as he finishes off his cookie, tucking the tiny fortune ( _May life throw you a pleasant curve._ Seriously?) into his pocket. He almost groans as familiar words fade in across the screen, TiMER in huge red letters, followed by the ever annoying tagline _Take the guesswork out of love!_ The commercial is so wrapped up in idealistic cliche that he almost reaches over to change the channel - a woman sitting in a park all pretty and made up, not a hair out of place, sitting on a picnic blanket. Her wrist is settled daintily on her lap, her timer bared for all to see. A frisbee lands on the grass near her curled up legs; she reaches for it, blocking her eyes against the sun as she searches for its owner. And then -bam!- there he is, and oh, he has a timer too, and right there, just as their eyes meet, a tiny _beep-beep-beep_ cuts through the quiet. Boom, soulmates. Fade to black.

He'd _almost_ turned it off, but then he'd caught sight of David's face, the way his eyes had darkened at the sight of that tagline ( _Take the guesswork out of love!_ As if it were that simple), the way his lips had settled into a thin line, not quite angry (but close, closer than Cook's seen him yet).

"You really don't like them, do you?" he asks, keeps his voice pitched low, non-confrontational. He doesn't want David to close himself off, not now.

Looks like it's too late for a second - David's lips turn almost white from pressure, fingers slack against his box of takeout. But then, quiet and reedy, Cook hears a muttered, "No."

He almost doesn't ask why, thinks he's pushing David a little too far (even though he doesn't know what's _wrong_ yet). "Is it... Is there a reason why you-?"

"Can we... not talk about that? Please?" David doesn't look at him, just keeps his gaze fixed on the flickering screen. "I know you want to, but can we... not? At least, not now? Please, Cook?"

Cook nods slowly, feels his dinner resting heavy in his stomach like lead. _Great job fucking screwing this up_ , he thinks. "Yeah, man. Sorry I was pushing you."

David smiles a little, just a tiny quirk of his lips (but at least that's something). "It's alright." He looks at the clock, expression a little less closed off, more weary now. Tired. "I should probably be getting home, though. It's getting late."

"Ah, yeah." Cook shoots a glance at the time himself as he gathers up their trash, David helping him cart it into the kitchen to the bin. It _is_ late, almost ten o'clock now (six hours they'd spent together), but Cook can't help but think that the hour is just an excuse, that he really did royally fuck up this thing with David (doesn't even fucking know _how_ , just that he'd asked the wrong stupid question about something David obviously didn't want to share with him).

He packs up the acoustic in a spare case as David's pulling on his coat and shoes, hands it over at the door despite David's protests ("I can't just take this, gosh!").

"Take it." He pushes the case into David's arms so that the younger man has no choice but to grab it. "Really, it'll do you more good than me. You just have to promise you'll practice, though, alright? I expect to be wowed the next time we meet up."

David finally smiles then (a real one, nothing like that sad little attempt earlier). "Alright. Thank you, Cook. For today."

"No problem." He pulls open the door for David, stepping out with him into the hall. "Just ah, call me or whatever whenever you want another lesson."

David nods, shrugging the guitar case over one shoulder. "Yeah, um. Would Friday be okay? It's my next day off, so..."

"Yeah, that's fine. Great. I'll see you then, David."

"Bye, Cook." David waves at him as he heads down the hall. Cook can hear him humming softly as he walks, keeps an eye on him until he rounds the corner and drops out of sight.

He closes the door and leans back against it once David is gone, surveying his living room with cloudy eyes. He feels... good. Satisfied, actually, glad that the night hadn't ended on such a bad note after all. He wonders, still, why the timers seem to upset David so much, why he closes off so quick whenever Cook brings them up.

He stares at his own, the blank screen, thinks of trying and trying so hard, over and over and over again, to make that right choice, to find that person, his _soulmate_ , how it hasn't happened in the fourteen years since the fucking thing was implanted into his wrist, how it might never even happen at all.

He thinks about Drew, about his brother's timer tick-tick-ticking away, how it won't stop until Drew is middle-aged and what a burden that must feel like.

Maybe David just doesn't want to deal with that - the disappointment, the waiting, the fucking loneliness. Maybe he just wants to let it happen on its own. Cook wants to ask him, but-

_"I know you want to, but can we... not? At least, not now? Please, Cook?"_

David might never tell him, had probably just said that to shut him up, to get out.

 _Just let it go_ , he thinks, yawning as he pushes off the door and heads to his bedroom. He pulls off his jeans and t-shirt before he slips under the covers, thinks crazily that David's hatred of timers isn't the only thing he should be letting go of.

Because there's no denying that little spark of attraction he feels for David, no ignoring the way he'd felt watching the younger man play that guitar, watching the way his whole face had lit up when he'd laughed at Cook's horrible jokes that night at the bar.

It's tiny now, small and unthreatening. If he tries, he knows he can quench that little spark. He doesn't have to act on it, doesn't even have to acknowledge it. He can make it go away.

He just doesn't know if he wants to.

-

  
They continue with their guitar lessons, make it a habit to meet every Friday and Sunday at Cook's apartment. David keeps getting better and better, nailing every challenge Cook throws at him. He even starts working on a song, asks Cook to show him how to play it (" _Imagine_? I've just, I've always loved that song.")

Pretty soon Cook starts dragging David out with him on Sundays ("You're doing great with just one day a week, c'mon, David!") They start by just leaving the apartment for lunch, taking turns deciding on which restaurants to go to. Cook asks him about work, how Mike and Carly and Kris are doing, and Cook promises to come by the Red Guitar soon ("Maybe we can jam on your break.") Sometimes, if something they both want to see is playing, Cook will drag David down to the local movie theater - sometimes they'll get each other to see something they wouldn't usually choose (Cook's already been coerced into seeing the new Pixar flick, wouldn't admit - despite David's incessant prodding - that he actually like it).

They don't escape Andrew's notice for long. He ends up tagging along with them sometimes, even sits and listens to them occasionally (crashes in on their lessons and won't leave, actually, no matter how hard Cook glares at him). Cook tries not to notice the long looks his brother keeps shooting David, the way his eyebrows raise in that smartass way whenever Cook sits too close.

He never brings up the issue of the timers again, figures if David really wants to tell him then eventually he will. Still, he almost stumbles on those rare occasions that he catches David looking at his, almost lets his mouth run away from him and pry like he so desperately wants to, _why do you hate them so much?_ always there on the tip of his tongue -

But then David will smile at him, or say something, or laugh, and Cook will think of that expression - angry and uncomfortable - that had shadowed David's face the second he'd asked about timers.

He can't bring them up after that.

 

-

 

"What the hell are you doing here?" Michael grins at him over the counter. The store is completely empty, some soft rock playing over the speakers. Mike's the only one there, but Cook can hear someone rummaging in the back room, tries to sneak a peek at the open door only to be blocked by Mike's cocky grin. "Looking for Little D, are we?"

"Fuck off." Cook reaches over and ruffles the Australian's hair, turning the already mussy strands into a tangled mess and laughing at the affronted look that gets him. "Is he here?"

" _Yes_ , he's here. Got him stocking up in the back." Mike leans against the counter, resting his head on his arms.

"And what are _you_ doing?" Mike just grins at him and shrugs, opening his mouth wide in a fake yawn. "Lazy bastard."

Michael just waves away his insult. "Yeah, yeah."

He's about to open his mouth to fire off another smartass retort when David comes out of the back, a box that looks half as heavy as he does balanced precariously in his arms.

He ignores Mike's snort of laughter as he grabs the box's slowly tipping side, heaving it up so that it rests flatly between them.

"Oh, Cook!" He can see David's bright smile over the top of the box, grins big and bright at him in return (he's learned it's nearly impossible not to). "What are you doing here? Our lesson's not until tomorrow, right?"

"Yeah, well." He helps David cart the box over to the counter, knocking his shoulder into Mike's before the other man can open his mouth (ignoring the muffled curses that fly his way as a result). "I thought I'd come in and see if I could catch you on your break, maybe play a little. If you wanted." David really has gotten so much better at the guitar. Cook bets he's already gotten _Imagine_ mastered, knows for a fact that he's been practicing it for weeks.

David's entire face lights up with his smile. "Oh! Yeah, that'd be, that'd be great! Um," he turns to Michael, "if that's alright with you?"

Mike waves a hand at the empty store, settling into a chair propped up against the racks behind the counter. "Sure thing, kid. No one here, anyway."

They drag two stools from the back over to the wall laden with gleaming vintage guitars, Cook grabbing the case he'd left by the door and David pulling his old acoustic from the back (Cook suppresses the warm little spark in his chest at the thought that David brings it even here, that he might be practicing during his work hours).

Once they're settled in, guitar straps slung over their shoulders and instruments cradled in their laps, Cook asks, "So? What do you wanna play?"

He's not the least bit surprised when David's fingers start plucking out the opening chords of _Imagine_. He almost doesn't join in (wants to listen to this more, to David playing by himself and showing just how far he's gotten) but he thinks that if he doesn't, David will stop.

So he plays, meshes with David perfectly, and soon the shop is filled with nothing but the sound of their guitars, the gentle melody of _Imagine_. Mike's even gone quiet; Cook can see him staring at them from across the store, impressed.

It goes on like that for the next few minutes, the pluck and strum of their fingers. He almost _does_ stop with the force of his surprise once David actually starts to _sing_. It completely throws him, the younger boy's quiet, lush voice, knocks him off his game for a minute before he struggles to reel it in, whatever he's feeling. He plays almost on auto pilot, wants to close his eyes so he can focus on nothing but David's voice (but doesn't want to look away from that face, David's own eyes closed tight, lips humming along to the words and then singing pure and clear, voice soft and raspy). Cook's never heard anything like it.

He's so focused on David that he doesn't even notice the shop door opening. It's only when clapping rings out as they draw to a close that he realizes they've gotten an audience - Kris is standing at the storefront grinning at them both, whistles when he realizes he's caught their attention.

"Wow, guys."

Cook returns his grin, looping his arm around David's shoulders. "Pretty amazing, isn't he?" he asks, thinking of what a fucking understatement that is. More than a month has gone by since they started their weekly sessions and not _once_ had David even mentioned he could sing.

David squirms uncomfortably under his arm (Cook's determined to wean him of that habit, though, that inability to take a single compliment). "Oh, no, it's not- Cook's the one who's been teaching me- "

"I didn't teach you how to sing," Cook says easily, sliding his guitar back into its case. He smiles at David's bright, pink face. "Really, David. You've got a gift there, man. You should use it more often."

David doesn't look at him as he mumbles a quiet, "Thanks," but Cook can see that what he's said has hit home (it's all in the younger boy's smile - soft and sweet and utterly sincere).

"He's right, David." Cook's almost forgotten that Kris is there. He's smiling gently at David (but he's eyeing Cook over the younger boy's head, giving him a look he can't quite decipher). "Hey, why don't you go ahead and finish stocking up, and then you can have the rest of the afternoon off?"

"Oh! Um, alright. If you're sure?" David's already heading over to the lone box sitting by the counter, heaving it up into his arms and heading for the racks of music books set up beside the keyboards.

"I'm sure," Kris calls after him, taking the stool David had vacated. "We're pretty slow now anyway. You should go and enjoy the rest of the day."

They watch for a while as David pulls open the box's flaps, digging out books and music magazines and stacking them into piles. He looks completely absorbed in his task - Cook can hear him humming under his breath as he sets the merchandise out on display.

"You've really taken him under your wing, huh?" Kris is giving him that look again, that I-know-something-you-don't look. His expression isn't unkind, though - just inquisitive. Curious.

Still, Cook nods slowly, hesitant about where this conversation is leading. Kris is the type of person who bonds easily with people, especially those he considers under his care. In some ways he's like the big brother to his employees, easygoing more often than not but a force to be reckoned with when something threatens someone close to him.

Cook's known him for a few years now, had been able to strike up a casual camaraderie with the shop owner when he'd first started frequenting The Red Guitar. He'd inherited the place from his grandfather, had molded it and modeled it in his own image, poured years of work and sweat into the place until it'd become what it is today. He's incredibly proud of it, that much is easy to see - in the way his eyes light up whenever a customer pushes through the front door, the way he throws himself into the work.

He'd been married, once, to his high school sweetheart. Cook had never met her, has only heard Kris talk about her a handful of times. They'd been young when they'd gotten together, had thought they'd last forever. ( _"Just didn't work out that way,_ " Kris had said, years ago when Cook had gotten up the nerve to ask him. _Sometimes things don't."_ )

He's also one of the few friends Cook has that hasn't gotten a timer yet. Kris doesn't have anything against them - not that Cook knows, anyway - but he's not jumping in line to get one anytime soon either. ( _They're just not for me, man."_ )

"You like him, don't you?"

" _W-What_?" Cook chokes on fucking _air_ , eyes watering at the force of it as he stares at Kris open-mouthed. "W-what the fuck - "

"Well, do you?" There's no air of teasing in the other man's voice, no way his question is anything less than serious.

"I... " Cook trails off, doesn't even know how to answer that. Thinks of lying for all of two seconds before he just shrugs helplessly (no way Kris wouldn't see right through him, anyway), heart pounding in his throat (because even if he's accepted this, his attraction to David, he'd never planned on anyone else finding out, doesn't even know how he gave himself away).

Kris nods. "Good." He swings his legs off the stool and starts to head towards the counter. "That was all I wanted to know. See you later, Cook."

And, wait, what? " _What_?" Cook nearly falls off his own stool in his haste to follow the other man, mind reeling. "Hey, wait - " He grabs Kris by the shoulder to get him to stop for a minute, further baffled by the teasing grin on the shorter man's face as he turns around. "What do you mean 'good'?"

Kris looks like he's holding back laughter now, eyes scrunching up at the corners. "I mean _good_ ," he says, ducking out of Cook's hold and sliding behind the counter, taking up the post Michael had abandoned to do who knows what. "You know, the opposite of bad?"

"But... " What the hell? Cook had expected a lot of different reactions should anyone ever find out about this, this thing he has for David, but calling it a good thing had never been very high up on the list. "So, what, you're okay with this?"

Now Kris just looks confused. "Am I... not supposed to be?" he asks, arching an eyebrow and peering over Cook's shoulder - David's finished putting away the books, is making his way into the back to get his things. "I mean, it was kind of obvious after a while, you know? Besides, the way David talks about you - "

"He talks about me?" There's a torrent of questions just waiting to surge past Cook's lips at this bit of information. "What, er... " And really, stuttering over his words is not something Cook does very often.

Kris grins at him knowingly, shrugging his shoulders. "He talks about your guitar lessons, mostly, how much he's learning, how excited he is that someone's teaching him. It's hard to tear him away from that guitar you gave him, you know. He takes it into the back room and practices during his break."

Cook nods slowly, already knowing this, palms feeling itchy and warm with anxiety because there is _something_ that Kris is not telling him. "And...?"

There it is, that all-knowing smirk (one day that look of his is going to get Kris punched). "And... Well, he does tend to bring up whatever it is you two do every weekend - movies, lunches, whatever. Yup, can't go a day without hearing about you in some way, really. Drives Mike crazy."

 _I'll bet it does_ , Cook thinks, amused, is about to offer up some remark when Kris's next words stop him cold.

"He likes you, you know." He says so calmly, like they're discussing the fucking weather, like it's something so evident it doesn't deserve any subtlety at all. "Maybe even more than you realize."

Cook stares at him, stunned into silence and rooted to the spot, thinking _You're wrong, you have to be. There's no way that David could -_

Because there's not, there's no way. Cook would _know_ , okay, David's not exactly the master of keeping secrets (not something this big at least).

He's about to tell Kris this, disregarding the feelings that had welled up inside him (fear and happiness and something like hope) at the thought that Kris might be right -

But David chooses that moment to return, backpack slung over one shoulder and grinning in that way that knocks Cook back on his ass every single time, so he settles for a doubtful backward glance at the shop owner before he's whisked out the front door.

-

They end up going to a diner a few blocks away from The Red Guitar, some little place David knows and thought Cook would like. It's bright and cheery inside, not too crowded, a jukebox playing softly in the background. The hum of conversation and the clink of silverware herald them over the threshold, and a waitress with long, dark hair and a warm grin leads them to a booth by the window.

"Nice to see you again, David," she says, handing them their menus and jotting down their drink choices - her nametag says _Jordin_. "Same as usual?"

"Yes, please." David turns the full watt of his smile at her (Cook has to fight down a sharp bite of jealously at that, which is just, no.)

"Alright, then." She jots down something on her notepad before turning to Cook, her grin widening. "And what about you?"

Cook orders a steak sandwich and a chocolate milkshake, a little wary of the way Jordin's grinning at him when she spins on her heel and heads back to the counter. It reminds him far too much of the way Kris had been looking at him when he'd confronted Cook about this thing he has for David, which, _fuck_ , are even complete strangers capable of seeing it now? Is he that fucking obvious?

"Cook? Are you alright?" David's staring at him sort of warily, fingers fidgeting against the tabletop. Snaps him out of it, at least - he forces a smile and hopes it comes across as halfway genuine (because it's not David's fault Cook wears his goddamn heart on his sleeve, and if Kris is right, if David really does - but no, Cook really just cannot go there right now, not with David sitting right across from him).

"I'm fine," he lies, looking around for something to distract himself with and hoping Jordin (or somebody else, preferably) would bring them their drinks. Somebody's gotten to the jukebox, sounds like - Cook can hear _Let it Be_ playing softly in the background, grins as that takes him back to David's impromptu little concert earlier. "You were pretty amazing back there, you know," he says - David just stares at him, probably more than a little confused by his behavior (no hiding how strung tight he was on the way over, nearly jumping out of his skin every time David so much as brushed up against him). "At the store," he clarifies gently, grinning at the way David's skin flushes a bright pink.

"O-oh, well." David's fidgeting has gotten worse - he's tearing at a napkin he'd snatched from the dispenser, eyes darting around the diner before landing somewhere below Cook's nose. "I meant what I said, um, to Kris. You were the one who taught me." Cook feels a warm little glow of pride swell up in his chest at that, tries to hide it behind a teasing smile.

"Hey, like I said, I didn't teach you how to sing." He spreads his hands on the tabletop, unable to hide the note of awe in his voice as he remembers just how David had sounded, soft and sweet and pure, wonders again why the teenager had never mentioned he had that little talent. "I mean it, David, you were _amazing_. Why didn't you tell me you could sing?"

David flails his hands (nearly takes out the salt and pepper shakers in his wake, making Cook grin and snort, trying not to laugh). "Well, I don't know! I just, it never came up. And besides, I didn't think - well, the way _you_ sing, it just - it didn't come up." When David slumps back into his seat, flushed and looking a little embarrassed, Cook knows he should let it go (after talking to Kris he has a hell of a lot to think about) but he can't help it, not with David looking like that.

"Do you like the way I sound, David?" he asks, voice sliding into something deeper, rougher (a hell of a lot more intimate than is wholly appropriate in this diner right now), but it's - he can't help it. The way David's looking, like he hadn't meant to let that last statement slip, like it was something he'd been trying to hide... Cook's not made of fucking stone, okay, he can't just ignore that.

_"He likes you, you know. Maybe even more than you realize."_

Christ, Kris's voice won't leave his fucking head, and what if he's right? What if David actually - ? And is that so bad, really? Cook would like to think that no, it's not, that he would be good for David, that David would be good for _him_ , that they're practically halfway to dating already and why shouldn't they finally just take that goddamn leap?

He's lost track of their conversation, but David's next words make damn sure he gets drawn back in. The younger man is staring at the tabletop, two spots of pink high on his cheekbones and over the bridge of his nose (and fuck if Cook doesn't think about taking David back to his apartment, taking him _anywhere_ , and pressing a kiss or two or eight to that skin). When David finally does talk, his voice is so soft Cook can barely hear it, has to lean in and almost falls flat on his fucking face once David opens his mouth.

"Y-yes." David swallows, once - Cook follows the line of his throat and feels half-crazed at the heat that one word has managed to make him feel. David _likes_ his voice, likes the way he sounds. Cook doesn't know why that gets to him, why it even matters (maybe because it was clearly something David felt embarrassed about revealing, felt like he should hide).

He's about to say something (god knows what) when Jordin comes back, balancing a tray with two drinks. "Here you are!" she says, setting their respective glasses in from of them with a tiny flourish, lips stretched in a grin. Cook notices the way she looks between them, not even trying to hide the amusement she's feeling. "I'll be back with your food in a few minutes!" Cook watches her go, wondering once again what the hell she knows.

"Is she... always like that?" he asks, taking a long sip of his milkshake and settling back into his seat, trying to shake off the tension and the warmth that had settled over him before their conversation had been interrupted. David looks relieved at the chance to change the subject, making Cook hide a grin around his straw (because there's no way he's letting this go now, no fucking chance, not when he's _this_ close to throwing all caution to the wind and just leaping over the table).

"Oh, um, Jordin? She's just... yeah, pretty much?" He takes a long sip of his own drink, mumbling afterward, "She's always been, uh, really nice to me since I started coming here, just like, talking to me a lot? And, uh, a while ago when I was confused about something, she kind of... let me talk it out with her? Figure out what was going on."

And god, right there - the way David's talking, the way he won't look Cook directly in the eye... Cook knows he's getting ahead of himself here, that he could be reading more into this than he should, that David could seriously see him as nothing but a friend and that what he's thinking of doing, of trying, could ruin all of that.

But he watches David as their food arrives, at the way Jordin smiles at him, teasing but good-natured, watches the way the younger man laughs when Cook starts telling him more stupid jokes, the way he slumps back into his seat and smiles as he clutches at his ribs, saying, "No more, Cook, I can't - haha, I can't take it!"

He watches, too, the way David blushes when Cook asks him back to his apartment, the way his arm brushes against Cook's as they walk down the street after they leave the diner, Jordin waving them away with a satisfied smile.

Thinks that really, his mind's been made up for him for weeks, and this thing between them - whatever it is - is just too good to pass up.

-

Andrew's been and gone by the time they get there - Cook can see an empty pizza box beside the couch, a note on the fridge that thanks him for letting Drew crash there for a while, _I knew you wouldn't mind, bro!_ (he really shouldn't have given his brother an extra key).

"Sorry," he says, picking up the empty box and tossing it beside the trash can in the kitchen to be taken out later. "Looks like we just missed Drew. How lucky are we?"

David giggles, taking off his coat and hanging it on the rack by the door. "He's not so bad," he says, laughing when Cook rolls his eyes and tosses his own coat somewhere in the vicinity of the couch.

"Oh, you _would_ say that, wouldn't you?" Cook teases, pulling David into the living room with an arm around his shoulders (hard to stop touching him now, when he's got his mind set on what he's about to try). "I swear, David, it must be some sort of superpower or something, the way you get along with everyone. Even Drew is immune to your charms." And he is, acts like a fucking angel whenever David is in the room (saves all the teasing for Cook, the bastard).

"No, I just- he's not _that_ bad!" They slump against the sofa cushions, Cook sliding off his boots as David jumps to Drew's defense (not that Cook can blame him, David doesn't know Drew like _he_ does, after all).

They fall into a comfortable silence, something that's become easier and easier as the weeks have gone by. David hums a little, making Cook grin, wondering if he can get David to sing again, hasn't been able to since that day they'd played _Imagine_ at The Red Guitar.

"Um, Cook?"

"Hmm?" Cook's got his eyes closed, head tilted against the couch, just soaking in David's presence and the late afternoon sun slanting through the windows.

"Can I... could I ask you something?"

Cook opens his eyes, tilts his head in David's direction. He can tell something's up by the way David's eyes won't meet his right away, wonders what it is. "Sure. Ask away."

"O-okay." David fidgets with the edge of the couch cushion, looks nervous and a little wary. "Your... your timer. Is it - I never asked, but, I mean, do you - Do you have - ?"

"A countdown?" Cook's voice feels stuck in his throat all of a sudden, almost has to fight to get the word out. Why is David asking him this?

David slowly meets his eyes. "Yeah, that... do you - ?"

"No." Cook swallows hard, sits up straight. Can't keep his eyes off David - the younger man looks like he wants nothing more than for the couch to open up and swallow him whole. "I don't. Never have. It's always been blank."

David nods once, jerkily, keeps pulling at the cushion, fingers shaky. "O-oh, so you don't, there isn't... you don't have your one then, yet? Isn't that - that's what they call it, right? When you've got someone? Your one?"

God, Cook can't fucking _breathe_. "Y-yeah. Yeah, David, that's what they call it. That's... Fuck David, why are you asking me this?"

David jumps at the curse, looking half scared out of his mind, shakier than Cook's ever seen him, like he's ready to bolt. "I d-don't. I'm sorry, Cook, I don't know why. I just wanted to - " He makes a move to get up - Cook wouldn't be surprised if he ran out of the apartment without bothering with his coat and shoes, as strung tight as he looks right now. "I'm not, um. I need to go, Cook, okay? I'm sorry - "

And fuck no, Cook has no intention of letting David just leave, not after _that_. He snags hold of his sleeve, pulls him back, doesn't even let up when David practically falls into his lap, voice high-pitched when he stutters out, " _C-Cook!_ What are you - ?" before Cook cuts him off the only way he knows how.

 _Please be alright with this_ , he thinks crazily, crushing his mouth to David's and swallowing the boy's startled gasp. It's harder than he intended, their teeth clacking together for a second before Cook lets up, pulls back a little so that their lips are barely touching. Stops there, doesn't add any more pressure, feeling the startled puff of David's breath against his lips and too fucking scared to try anything more when the younger man's not even responding, thinking _Shit, I was wrong, he didn't -_

But then David _is_ moving, fingers clenching on Cook's shoulders and Cook thinks _This is it, he's leaving, I screwed this up, **damnit**_. But David's not - not leaving, not pulling away, not telling Cook he's disgusting. He's _kissing back_ , slowly, unsurely, like he doesn't know what to do (and fuck, that's not helping Cook's control here, thinking that David's never done this).

It doesn't last long, doesn't deepen, Cook pulling back after a few quick, heated seconds to look at David's face, his red cheeks and hazy eyes, asks, "Is this okay?" in a low voice, fingers clenching in David's sleeve to keep himself from grabbing the teenager and reeling him back in - the younger man's proximity is driving him _crazy_.

David blinks at him slowly, looking a little out of it himself. "U-um, I... " His eyes drift lazily down from Cook's to the older man's chest, widening as he realizes just how close they are. "Oh! " He starts to move away - Cook tightens his hold on David's sleeve before he realizes the younger man just means to slide off of his lap (where he'd forgotten David had fallen, fuck, no wonder he looked so embarrassed) and not bolt out the front door.

 _Get a hold of yourself, Dave,_ he thinks, forcing himself to loosen his grip. David settles onto the couch beside him, close enough that Cook can still feel the warmth of his body heat.

"... David?" he prompts, once the silence gets to much for him. The teenager's not moving, not saying anything, fingers curled together in his lap as he stares - at Cook, mostly, but Cook doesn't miss the way David's eyes drift down to his timer more than once. He almost groans in defeat - is that really going to be the deciding factor here, the one thing that will tip David's favor away from starting this, whatever it is, between them? Does Cook's timer really matter so damn much?

It takes a moment (a moment that feels like fucking hours and Cook's just sitting there, waiting) before David sighs, seems to steel himself, shoulders straightening as he finally looks away from Cook's timer and into his eyes instead. Cook's never seen David look the way he does now, so determined and resolved. "It's... " he starts, swallowing, laying one of his hands timidly on top of Cook's. "It's okay, Cook. You, um... it's okay." His fingers twitch, nervousness starting to creep back into his expression - Cook holds on to his hand, tries to ease his anxiety with a soft smile (heart pounding so loud he's sure David can hear it).

"Okay," he says, feeling warm and giddy and not altogether unlike a twelve year old girl. "Okay." He pulls David forward, leans in close (can't fucking help it now), grinning when the younger man doesn't resist. "What about this?" he asks, inches away from David's soft, red mouth.

David tilts his head, smiles slow and soft and warm, and reaches up to give Cook his answer.

-

The next few weeks go by in a blur.

It's amazing, Cook thinks, how easy it is for his relationship with David to transition from friendship into something more. Nothing even really changes - they still have their weekly guitar lessons every Sunday (David's fucking amazing, Cook barely has anything to teach him anymore), still hang out on Fridays when David doesn't have to work, Cook still shows up at the Red Guitar unannounced with his guitar and forces David to play with him (nowadays Kris will join in, with even Michael and Carly singing along to whatever song they decide to play that day).

It's the small things that count, the changes in their routine - the way David will grab his hand when Cook is walking him home after work, the way the space between them will shrink whenever they're together, the way Cook pulls David in at every possible moment to kiss him (still can't get over it, that he's allowed to do that now).

It's picking David up at work, pulling him into a bone crushing hug or wrapping an arm around his waist and not caring who the hell is there to see it (Michael just crows at them, anyway, saying he knew it from the start. Carly and Kris aren't much better).

It's pulling Andrew aside at the bar one night when there's a lull in the crowd, telling him in no uncertain terms what's going on, that he and David are dating, that it's new and he doesn't know where it's going and he's fucking terrified that he'll screw it up, and having Drew punch him in the shoulder and tell him to _"Breathe, Dave, alright? I get it,"_ grinning at him in that smartass way of his and shaking his head. _"Hate to break it to you, bro, but it was kind of fucking obvious."_

And it's now, standing on the Archuleta's front porch, hand raised to knock, dressed in a black sweater and his best pair of jeans and waiting for David to open the door (waiting to meet his _family_ , god, his palms had started sweating just walking up the damn driveway).

It's not like he hadn't expected this - it's been nearly two months now since he met David, a month almost since they started dating, so he knew this was coming, was surprised he hadn't already met David's mother and siblings with just how often he walked the boy home. And he's glad he's here now, glad David had asked him to come over for dinner, eyes lowered and cheeks red, clearly embarrassed.

_"Sorry, I know it's kind of... sudden, maybe, but my mom really wants to meet you and - and my sisters, too! Oh, and Daniel, um, well, I'm sure he wants to meet you. Just - he might not... talk to you, when you're there? He's just - that's just how he is. But you don't have to say yes! I mean, if you don't want to. Um."_

Cook had just let him ramble, grinning at the younger man when he'd finally stopped (because David's rambling? Fucking adorable.) and promising that he'd be there, that no, he didn't mind, and _"Of course I want to meet your family, David."_

And he does, he's sure they're all great (have to be, he thinks, if they're related to David). It's just... this is _it_ , the big step, or at least the first big step of many - meeting the parents, meeting the family. It makes everything seem more... real. For so long it's just been _them_ \- hell, David hasn't even met Neal and Andy yet, not to mention Cook's own parents, Christ. And it's not like they haven't been asking - Drew's already spilled the beans about Cook dating someone new, so every phone call home is like an invitation to play twenty questions (most of them from his mother). He's running out of excuses as to why exactly he hasn't brought David home yet.

He plans on it, he does, he just... He doesn't want to rush things, knows by experience how quickly things can snowball downhill if given half the chance, doesn't want that with David. It's... different, this time. He knows it, he's glad of it, knows the timers even have something to do with it. David never even mentions them, barely even glances at Cook's (Cook makes that easy enough, doesn't like the way David's eyes will darken at the sight of that band around his wrist, the way it makes the air around them thick with tension). He knows David will never drag him down to the TiMER clinic like his girlfriends in the past have always done, will probably never have a timer installed at all (feels relieved about that, more than he should, because if David _were_ to get a timer, if it turned out that there was someone else out there, someone who wasn't _Cook_ , someone else who was supposed to be with David, to kiss him and pull him close and listen to him sing... Cook doesn't want to think about it, doesn't even want to consider it.)

It might be too early to call this love, to label it as something that powerful, something that permanent, but it's... it's definitely _something_ \- something sweet and warm and familiar, something he wants to keep, wants to hold on to.

So he's going to do this, going to meet David's family, going to take him to meet his own parents, his other friends, because what they have doesn't need to be hidden, doesn't need to be guarded over or excused - deserves to be shown for all that it is.

So when David opens the door, light spilling onto the porch and making his dark hair stand out, and smiles in that way that makes Cook's toes curl with warmth every single fucking time, Cook doesn't even need to think about what he's doing.

"Hey, David," he says, reaching out and curling his fingers around David's jaw, pulling him in for a soft, lingering kiss. He feels David melt against him, sliding his palm over one of Cook's hands, humming into the kiss (and Cook _loves_ that, the tiny, musical sounds David will make when they do this).

"Mo-om! Davey's being gross!"

Cook pulls back just in time to see two little girls, hands entwined and curls bouncing, disappear into what he guesses is the kitchen. David's blushing, cheeks hot beneath his palms, mumbling, "Oh gosh," under his breath and looking absolutely mortified. Cook grins, completely unashamed.

"Oops," he says, laughing at David's panicked expression. "Didn't realize we had an audience."

"Cook!" David smacks him on the arm, pulling him inside so he can shut the door -his ears are bright red, embarrassed about being caught (but Cook catches the small smile on his lips as he takes Cook's jacket and hangs it in the closet by the door).

A woman steps into the living room just as David puts Cook's jacket away. It isn't much of a leap to assume that this is David's mother - she looks just like him, the same dark hair, the same build, the same warm hazel eyes.

"You must be David," she says, reaching for his hand - her palm is warm and smooth against his, smile the same gentle quality as her son's. Cook can't help but return the gesture, already feeling more at ease than when he'd knocked on the door.

"It's nice to meet you, Mrs. Archuleta," he says, shaking her hand. She grins and tells him to call her Lupe, that it's nice to finally meet him ("David's told us all so much about you.") They chat for a little while, Lupe asking him the same questions he had been expecting - about his family, what he does for a living, the same getting-to-know-you questions everyone always asks. It's nice, comfortable, even when David's youngest sisters slide into the living room with bare feet and bright eyes, talking a mile a minute, grabbing onto his hands and asking him to play a game with them.

"Guys, don't - " David starts, looking embarrassed (as usual) and a little frazzled, but Cook takes it all in stride, touching David's shoulder and telling the girls he'd be happy to join them. He even gets David to join in, all four of them sitting around the coffee table in the living room, a Chutes and Ladders board set up in front of them.

Lupe watches the game for a while, smiling as the girls giggle every time they get ahead or Cook pouts in mock outrage when David beats him during the second round. David's older sister and younger brother join in just as they're starting a round of Monopoly, and by the time Lupe calls them all into the dining room for dinner Cook is pretty well acquainted with every single member of the Archuleta clan (and David was completely wrong about Daniel, Cook thinks smugly - all he had to do was let slip that he was the one who had taught David how to play the guitar and the younger Archuleta had opened up to him like a book).

Dinner is delicious (Cook has no trouble gushing about this to Lupe). He makes it a point to offer to help clean up (and maybe he's trying too hard here, but he can't help it - years of being raised by his own mother have instilled a sort of courtesy in him that he can't quite shake). Lupe asks David if he would mind getting the younger girls ready for bed while they clear the dishes away, a less than subtle ploy, Cook knows, of getting him alone. David's not fooled - he agrees readily enough to his mother's request, but Cook catches his eyes more than once before he disappears upstairs, Jazzy and Amber chattering on behind him.

He doesn't feel any sort of unease under Lupe's quiet stare as he helps her with the dishes, even offering to help her wash them once they're settled beside the sink. They talk about little things as they work, nothing important until Lupe brings up his and David's guitar lessons, thanks him for taking the time to teach her son.

"He's always wanted to learn. I could tell he was happy with you teaching him, could hear it in his voice when he'd come home and tell me about it. I hear him every night now, practicing." And Cook can't help the slow curl of heat that spreads throughout his body at that, thinking of David sitting on his bed, fingers focused and sure on the guitar that Cook had given him.

"It was no problem," he says, clearing his throat and trying to focus on drying the plate Lupe hands him- best not to think about things like that with David's mother in the room. "Your son... " he continues, unable to hide the affection in his voice. "He's so talented. When I first heard him sing... "

Lupe's smile goes soft (Cook is once again reminded of just how closely she resembles her son). "Yes, David has always loved his music." Her expression turns a little dark then, that same spark of bitterness Cook sometimes sees on David's own face whenever timers are mentioned. She covers it up with a smile. "It's so good to see someone helping him with it, teaching him. I wanted to thank you personally, David, for that." She dries her hands off on a towel after the last dish is cleaned, turning to him with a small, grateful smile. "I think you're good for him, for my son."

David's footsteps on the stairs stop Cook from saying anything back (doesn't even know what the hell _to_ say, not after that, feeling the enormity of Lupe's gratitude and her blessing crashing over him like a wave, doubts he'd be able to speak coherently anyway).

Has to settle for a small, shaky smile instead, hoping it says all that he can't - that being with David, helping him, teaching him, being able to see him grow with his music and everything else... No one has to thank him for that.

-

They're end up on the porch swing after dinner, just moving idly back and forth. The younger Archuleta's are put to bed, the older ones in their rooms. Cook had said goodnight to Lupe before they'd gone outside, thanking her for the wonderful meal and receiving an invite for another whenever he wished.

He'd curled his hand around David's the moment they'd sat down on the swing, has them both resting in the space between their bodies when David suddenly starts to speak, voice quiet and strangely vulnerable, eyes focused on some point beyond the porch railing.

"You asked me a few days after we met why I didn't like timers."

Cook's eyes widen a little, looking at David's profile - the younger man's lips are tight with some unidentified emotion, but his hand is snug in Cook's. "Yeah," he says quietly, not sure where this is going.

David takes a deep breath. "We used to live in Utah," he starts - everything is quiet save the sound of his voice. "In Murray. We lived there, in the same house, my entire life. It was always me and my siblings, my mom, and my dad." David clears his throat a little, squeezing Cook's hand. "Everything was fine, you know? I always thought we were so happy, so lucky. And we were - we still are, it's just... I never even knew about timers until I was thirteen, when my parents asked me if I wanted one. They explained what they were, how they worked - I didn't really understand it, how a clock could count down to the moment you met your soulmate. I just... I didn't believe in it, you know?

"So I told them no, that I was fine with not having one. Claudia hadn't wanted one either, Daniel doesn't now, and after... well, I don't think Jazzy or Amber will really want one, either. I, see, my dad... He was always, always a good person, you know? I always thought he was, even when he would get kind of... when he would tell me to stop singing, that it wasn't something I could really base a career on, that I should focus on something more concrete, something I could build a future on."

Cook almost has to hold back a snarl at this, at a man he doesn't even know - how could anyone want David to put singing on the backburner, want him to give that up?

"He was just trying to look out for me, I know that," David continues, kicking lightly at the ground to get them moving again, a slow, steady arc. "And it was fine, _I_ was fine, I thought... I thought we were all happy." His voice chokes a little - Cook squeezes his hand, pulls it into his lap so he can cover it with both of his own, trying to offer what little comfort he can (hates that this is hurting David, telling Cook this).

"One day when I got home from school, Mom was in the music room - her piano was in there, really it was just the den but it was where we... where we all would get together and sing or listen to her play. She was just.. sitting there, at the bench, not really playing anything. Claudia was with her, and I could tell she'd been crying - her eyes were all red. I could hear her talking to Mom, trying to get her to say something. It, um... it took a while, but eventually she finally snapped out of it and told us what had happened."

Cook doesn't push him when David falls silent, just asks quietly, "What happened, David?" hating the way David's eyes are glinting in the light from the living room window, the way he's biting his lip hard enough to bleed.

"My, uh... my dad, he - he'd left us, that morning. He... He'd always shown so much interest in, in timers, you know? And one night, one night he just, he went out and got one implanted. Didn't tell anyone, didn't tell _Mom_ , I... I don't even know when he got it, it could have been weeks or even, even _months_ , and he was just - lying to everyone, keeping it hidden. He told - " This time there's no hiding the break in David's voice. His knuckles are white between Cook's palms, eyes glassy and face miserable and Cook fucking _hates_ it.

"He told Mom that he had a countdown, that that was proof that they, that their marriage wasn't... w-wasn't working, wasn't right. It was like he was saying all those years they spent together, all of _us_ \- it was like we didn't even _count_ , Cook."

David finally looks at him then, tears brimming in his eyes - he looks absolutely wrecked. Cook barely has control over himself when he sees that expression on David's face, just reaches over and wraps his arms around David's shoulders, pulls him against his chest (as if he could hold all of David's hurt, make it fucking go away).

"You know that's not true, David," he says, lips pressed to David's forehead, fingers clenched in the back of his sweater.

David nods slowly against his chest, breathes in sharply through his nose. "I-I know, it's just... How could he do that? How could he doubt, for even a second, that he and Mom weren't - that they weren't supposed to be together? How could he trust a stupid countdown over everything else, over his children, and his wife, and everything we had? And even if, even if it _were_ true, even if Mom and Dad were going to end up divorced anyway, why did he have to do it like that? It wasn't - "

"Wasn't fair," Cook finishes, glaring at the tiny strip of metal wrapped around his left wrist, clearly visible from where his coat sleeve had ridden up. He's unreasonably angry at the fucking thing, feeling every bit of the hate and resentment David must feel for these timers, because what good _have_ they done? How many other relationships had been ruined or stopped cold because of them? How many people were out there fucking waiting, years on top of years on top of decades, for their countdowns to finally hit zero? What was the _point_?

"I've had my timer for fourteen years." Cook's voice is quiet, eyes locked on his wrist. He feels David lift his head to look at him, can't quite meet his eyes yet. "I'd never really understood how they were supposed to work either, you know? The whole idea of finding your soulmate - hell, of having a soulmate at all - just seemed so unbelievable to me." He pauses, trying to figure out where he's going with this. "It's not that they don't work, I _know_ they do - my mom and my step-dad? It's how they met. Neal and Andy, too. So I never understood why mine just... wasn't working, why it was taking so long, why it's fourteen years later and my timer is still fucking _blank_." David winces at the curse, still doesn't pull away, though. Cook can feel the weight of his gaze on his face, still can't bring himself to look the younger man in the eye.

"It's not like I didn't try, you know? I did, I tried to make a relationship work, thought I was doing great a couple of times, thought I was coming so close to that thing that everyone else seemed to have, something _real_ , but - " He barks out a humorless laugh, shaking his head. "It always ended the same way, and eventually I just - got sick of it. Decided I was finally done."

He pulls back enough to look at David - he's watching Cook with an intensity that's almost scary, fingers twisted in the fabric of Cook's now wrinkled jacket and Cook hesitates over what he's about to say, feels like too much and too soon and big enough to fucking swallow them both. "When I met you," he finally breathes out, figuring what the hell, he might as well go for it, "I knew - fuck, David, I was attracted to you from day one, that first time I met you in The Red Guitar. And then when I saw you in the bar that weekend, and we started talking... It was just, it felt natural, felt right. Being with you feels... _right_." He trails off weakly, wondering if this will be enough to scare David away, knows it really is too soon to be talking like this, putting so much stock into this relationship when it's still so new (but Cook's never been able to hold himself back from going after what he wants when it's right in front of him, figures he shouldn't be starting now).

He's not expecting it when David kisses him, slow and soft and undeniably sweet, feels his breath catch as cool fingers press against his jaw. Can't do anything but sit there, fingers slack against David's shoulders, feeling shaky and vulnerable and completely torn apart by this, by David's lips against his.

When he finally pulls back it's only far enough to look Cook in the eye, cheeks red and lips swollen. "Is that enough?" His voice is warm and raspy, a little uncertain. "For now, I mean? Is that enough?"

" _David_." Cook wraps his arms around the younger man's shoulders (can't seem to keep any distance between them now) and presses their foreheads together. "That's more than enough."

-

"So, you're really into this kid, aren't you?"

Neal's staring at him over the rim of his beer bottle, voice low enough that the other occupants of the room can't hear him. Not like they'd be able to anyway, not with the way Andrew's practically screaming into the mic, the Foo Fighters _Everlong_ blaring through the speakers. David and Andy are trying to be serious (and who knew David would turn out to be such a fucking pro at Guitar Hero?) but Cook can tell they're both about to dissolve up there - David's biting at his lips so hard they're turning red, cheeks flushed with the effort of holding back his laughter. Andy's already pretty much given up, fingers slipping on his controller with the force of his mirth. Drew's not even paying attention.

They're all camped out in Neal and Andy's apartment, a few weeks after Cook's dinner with the Archuleta family. Andy had been the one to call Cook and invite him over, telling him to bring David ("It's been two months, Dave! We're not gonna hurt the kid, promise.") and Drew, too, if he wanted (he hadn't, but Drew had been listening in at the time and Cook hadn't really had a choice in the matter).

Surprisingly enough, David had been pretty excited about it. "They're your friends and I haven't even seen them yet!" he'd said, voice hushed and breathy over the phone - it had been late when Cook called and he hadn't wanted to wake anyone up. "Well, other than that night at the bar - they were both amazing, did I ever tell you that? Oh, but you were, too!" He hadn't even seemed nervous when they'd pulled up to the apartment complex, had been talking to Drew for most of the drive over, asking him how he'd been (and his brother had been all too happy to talk the teenager's ear off, Cook rolling his eyes in the driver's seat at some of Drew's more exaggerated stories and at just how quickly Drew had become so taken with David).

He'd been a little more withdrawn when they'd gotten to Neal and Andy's door, hand clasped loosely in Cook's, had flinched a little when Neal had yanked it open (which Cook understands, really - Neal _can_ be pretty intimidating at first glance). Thankfully Andy had been right there with him, could probably tell how nervous David had been - he hadn't moved other than to step into the apartment, his hold on Cook's hand no longer loose but clenched tight. Andy had smiled at him, warm and inviting (even Neal had made an effort, actually, had tried to hold back on the cursing once he realized it made David uncomfortable).

The night had actually gone better than Cook had been expecting. It took a while for David to warm up to his friends, a while for him to stop looking like a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming train every time Neal asked him something or Drew raided the fridge for more beers. Andy made it a point to sit next to him, talking about whatever he could think of - pretty soon they were chatting like old friends, especially once the topic of conversation steered more towards music, David gushing about the one performance he had seen from them and Andy telling him he should come by for one of their practices. ("Cook told us you're pretty amazing with a guitar - you should bring yours, play a few songs with us."

"Oh, um... Maybe?")

Drew had been the one to suggest Guitar Hero, helping Andy lug out the guitar controllers and the mic, immediately throwing one to both Cook and David and keeping the microphone to himself. It had turned into a contest of sorts after the first round, David completely blowing Cook away with the speed of his fingers over the plastic fret board, beating him easily.

"And so the student surpasses his teacher!" Drew had crowed, slapping David on the back and throwing Cook's controller to Andy (despite Cook's half-hearted protests that this was a game and they weren't even real guitars so it didn't actually _count_ ).

He'd been watching David thoroughly wipe the floor with Andy when Neal had sat down beside him on the couch, drinking from a half-empty bottle of beer and keeping an eye on Andy (who was currently nearly on his knees on the floor, laughing so hard he could barely play a single note).

Cook hadn't been expecting Neal to ask him anything, so it takes him a few moments to be able to come up with some sort of answer.

"It's kind of obvious, isn't it?" he asks, grinning a little at the smirk that remark gets him. He sobers up quickly, though, wondering where this is leading. "Is that a bad thing?" He hasn't really had a chance to talk to Neal about any of this, had only told him the bare facts about David when his friend had asked him who he'd been blowing off their past few weekends for.

Neal watches him for a minute, watches David - the teenager's lost the battle against his laughter, is giggling so hard his shoulders are shaking with it. Drew _still_ hasn't realized why everyone is falling apart around him, just keeps singing (well, what passes for singing for Drew, at least) into the mic.

"I think... " Neal starts, studying him for another long moment (Cook doesn't know if Neal's just teasing him or if he really doesn't know what to say) before he shrugs his shoulders, taking a long gulp of his beer as he leans back into the couch and raises his legs, no doubt leaving scuff marks on the coffee table from his boots. "I think you know what you're doing, Dave."

Cook's about to ask what the hell that's supposed to even mean when he sees the small smile Neal's hiding behind the lip of his bottle, feels relief course through him. Doesn't stop him from slugging Neal in the shoulder, muttering a "Bastard," and grinning as he hears David laugh, loud and bright and completely infectious as Andrew hits a sour note and pouts as his character is finally booed from the stage.

It's not until Drew's handed the mic off to Andy and taken up the other guitar controller that Cook thinks to ask Neal something himself, staring at the strip of skin visible when the other man reaches over to set his bottle on the table. There's a long white scar stretched across his wrist where his timer used to be - he'd gotten it removed a few years after meeting Andy (who has a similar scar across his own wrist). They'd both said the same thing when Cook had asked them why they'd done it - they didn't need them anymore. Cook wonders now if they even needed them at all.

"Do they matter?" Another song has started up, one he doesn't recognize. He feels the weight of Neal's gaze on him as David and the others start to play, doesn't take his own eyes off of the teenager.

Neal doesn't ask him what he's talking about, doesn't need to. "I don't think so." His voice is clipped and matter-of-fact, doesn't even need to think of his answer. For some reason that makes Cook feel better, relieved.

"If you wouldn't have gotten one," he says, watching David's long, graceful fingers fly over the fret board, the way he's smiling at the screen, lips moving as he sings along softly to the song they're playing, "would it have made a difference? You and Andy, all of this... Would it have happened anyway, even without you knowing he was out there?"

Neal frowns, looks at Andy, looks at the scar on his wrist. Cook waits, has this feeling that Neal's answer is _important_ , more so than he can possibly understand. Feels stupid for it, can't explain it, but it's there.

Neal takes what feels like forever to answer (Cook unable to look away from David the entire time) but when he does Cook feels like the weight of the world has been lifted from his shoulders. "It would have happened anyway." Neal wraps his fingers around Cook's left wrist, startles him enough that he jerks his eyes away from David to rest on his best friend - the hand around his wrist is almost too warm against the chill of his timer. "Whether they existed or not, Dave, whether they work or not - it would have happened anyway."

Cook swallows around a suddenly dry throat, nods. Feels like there's a brand around his wrist when Neal pulls away and turns back to the screen - looks like Andy's won this time, clearly a far more capable singer than Drew, who's mumbling obscenities under his breath as he takes a long drink of his beer.

"Just you wait, man," he grumbles, slumping into the armchair by the couch and slinging the controller to Neal. "Next round, I'm kicking every single one of your asses."

"Uh huh." Neal makes sure to pass by Drew's chair on his way to the television, smacking him on the back of the head ("Ow! Motherfu- ") and bumping his shoulder (gently, Cook notices, grinning) against Andy's. He smirks at David. "Ready, Archuleta? I won't go easy on you like those two idiots back there."

"Excuse me!" Drew pipes up, still nursing the bruise that's no doubt forming on the back of his head. "I'll show you easy once I - " Cook reaches behind him and throws the jacket he'd left on the couch directly at his brother's face, smothering his protests (barely even has to aim - shutting Drew up is pretty much second nature to him at this point). He's too busy watching David anyway - the boy looks like he's walking into battle up there, fingers poised above his guitar, so serious it's almost funny (but mostly just really fucking endearing). He can tell Neal's going to have his work cut out for him on this one.

He settles into the couch as they pick a song, watches David through most of it, the way the glow from the screen lights up his entire face, the way his fingers move with barely any effort at all, the smile on his face when Andy coaxes him to see along to _Livin' On a Prayer_ , the sound of his voice (loud and clear and completely overtaking everything else).

He thinks of what Neal said, thinks of the last fourteen years of his life, thinks of his mother and his step-father meeting for the very first time, thinks of David's father leaving his wife and children and using timers as an excuse. He thinks of meeting David at The Red Guitar, of that inexplicable pull he'd felt since even then, thinks of offering David guitar lessons and hearing him sing - thinks of falling for this boy, hard and fast and barely even realizing how it happened.

Thinks, _It would have happened, anyway._

And it did.

-

_epilogue_

The bar is in a total uproar tonight.

Cook's up on that little stage, sweaty and breathless and grinning so hard it hurts, thinking that small as it is, this - being here, getting to sing to people that actually _enjoy_ it, being able to spot his brother and his friends and David in the crowd? It's the second best feeling in the world.

The first is grabbing the mic, opening his mouth to speak, clear and happy in the knowledge of what he's about to do. "Alright, guys." He waits until the clamor and the noise has died down a little, takes that time to scan his eyes over the crowd. There's Drew at the bar, mixing a drink for a woman Cook's never seen before. His brother's face is open and inviting (definitely pouring on the charm, then), and his wrists are bare - it's hard to see in the low light of the bar, but if Cook really looks he can spot the long, thin scar blaring white against Drew's skin.

Michael is at a table in the center of the bar, Carly's arm threaded through his (and that - yeah, that's new). Kris is on Carly's right - Cook recognizes him instantly, hard to miss that bright spot of plaid in the dim light of the bar, harder still to miss the guy he's with, tall and dark-haired and a more familiar sight as the weeks go by.

His eyes land on David just as the crowd finally quiets. He's sitting beside Michael, eyes focused on the stage (where they've stayed for the past half-hour, reminding Cook again and again of the night he'd been blind-sighted by those same eyes for the first time, huge and bright and clear even in the haze of sweat and adrenaline and music).

"I wanted to slow things down a bit," he says, voice low and warm, speaking to the crowd but not once (not once) taking his eyes off of David. "This next song... Well, it's not one of ours, but I think you'll know it." He strums the opening chords to _Imagine_ , soft and slow, sees the moment when David recognizes what it is.

"There's something about this song," he continues, strumming at the same pace, just him and the guitar. "I guess you could say it's... special, to me. Makes me think of someone." There's a catcall from the bar (Drew, no doubt) but Cook ignores it, ignores everything but the soft flush of David's cheeks, the happy curl of his lips. "He's here tonight, actually, and I was hoping he'd do a little something for me. See, the thing is, I can't play this song by myself. Doesn't sound right. So I need a little help." He stops strumming, reaches out his left hand towards the crowd, towards that smile he could pick out anywhere, those huge hazel eyes he can't fucking look away from. "David, would you come up here?"

David bites his lip, embarrassed in the face of so much attention - there are whistles and catcalls erupting around the bar as he nervously stands up, Michael and Andrew leading the pack with the loudest voices of them all. His cheeks are redder than Cook's ever seen them by the time he gets to the stage, fingers twisting in the hem of his hoodie.

Cook kneels down so that they're at eye level, reaches out to curl his fingers around David's cheek. "So," he says, quiet and close so no one else can hear, "will you play with me, David?" He doesn't miss the way those hazel eyes drift over his face, over his arm and to the long white scar wrapped around his left wrist (months old now, like Drew's - they'd gotten both of their timers removed on the same day, hadn't even told anyone. Still remembers the look on David's face when he'd found out, soft and sweet and so fucking hopeful. Doesn't regret it, doubts he ever will, doesn't need a piece of clockwork to tell him what he already knows is true).

When David nods it's like a benediction. Cook holds tight to his hand and pulls him up on stage.


End file.
